IM10 August Heat (2008)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “It’ll take him two or three days to figure out that Milluso’s had nothing to do with it. But those two or three days will be enough for me.”

  “There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” said Fazio.

  “Say it.”

  “Why, when he needed the material for the railing, did he turn to Ribaudo’s instead of having it sent from one of his other worksites?”

  “That would have meant involving other people from the other worksites. Spitaleri must have thought that the fewer the people who knew about the matter, the better.Apparently he could trust Ribaudo’s.”

  During the night, Montalbano’s conscience, contrary to his fears, chose to rest. Thus the inspector awoke from his five hours of sleep as if he had slept ten. The cloudless morning sky put him in a good mood. At that early hour, however, the air was already hot.

  The minute he arrived at the office, he phoned Marshal Alberto Laganà, of the Finance Police, who had helped him so many times before.

  “Inspector! What a pleasant surprise! What’s the good news?”

  “It’s bad news, unfortunately.”

  “Let’s hear it anyway.”

  “Do you know the Ribaudo firm in Vigàta, the one that supplies construction materials?”

  Laganà chuckled to himself.

  “You bet we know them! Materials sold without invoices, evasion of sales tax, cooking the books . . . And we were just planning to renew the acquaintance in the next few days.”

  A stroke of excellent luck.

  “When, exactly?”

  “Three days from now.”

  “Couldn’t you start early, say, tomorrow?”

  “But tomorrow is August the fifteenth! What’s this about?”

  Montalbano explained the situation to him. And told him what he wanted to know.

  “I think I can manage it the day after tomorrow,” Laganà concluded.

  “Chief ? There’s summon says he’s called Falli Fardillo that says you summoned ’im for ten aclack this morning.”

  “Have you got the printout of the girl who was killed?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Bring it to me, then tell Fazio to come to my office, and then, lastly, send that man in.”

  Naturally, Catarella sent in Dalli Cardillo first, then went and got the file, which Montalbano placed upside down on his desk, and finally went and called Fazio.

  Dalli Cardillo was thickset and fiftyish, with short-cropped hair without a trace of white, swarthy, and sporting a moustache of the sort that Turks used to wear in the nineteenth century. He was nervous, and it showed.

  But who isn’t nervous when summoned without explanation to the police station? Wait a second.Without explanation? Was it possible Spitaleri hadn’t already told him what to say?

  “Mr. Dalli Cardillo, did Mr. Spitaleri tell you why you were summoned here?”

  “Nossir.”

  He seemed sincere to Montalbano.

  “Do you remember working on one of Spitaleri’s sites six years ago, where you built a house in the Pizzo district of Marina di Montereale?”

  Hearing the question, the mason looked so relieved that he allowed himself a little smile.

  “So you discovered the illegal floor?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I did what the boss told me to do.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. All I want from you is some information.”

  “As far as that goes, I’m at your service.”

  “Was it you, together with your workmate, Gaspare Miccichè, who covered up the lower apartment with sandy soil?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Did you work together the whole time?”

  “No. On that day, I quit at twelve-thirty, and Miccichè continued alone.”

  “Why did you stop early?”

  “Spitaleri’s orders.”

  “But hadn’t Spitaleri already left?”

  “Yes, but the day before he left, he told us what to do.”

  “Could you explain to me how you went in and out of the bottom floor?”

  “We made a sort of tunnel out of wooden planks, a kind of covered, sloping gangway, like for a steamship. Half of it was already covered up on top by all the soil. It led up to a window next to the smaller bathroom.”

  The window that Bruno had fallen into.

  “How high was this tunnel?”

  “It was low. Less than three feet.You had to stay down.”

  “Tell me something.What need was there for a tunnel?”

  “Spitaleri told us to build one. He wanted the crew chief to check if the pressure of the soil could do any damage to the interior, letting the dampness inside and stuff like that.”

  “The crew chief was Dipasquale?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And he came and checked?”

  “Yessir. At the end of the first day. But he told us to keep working, because everything was okay.”

  “Did he also come by the last day?”

  It was Fazio, cutting in.

  “He didn’t come by in the morning, when I was there. Maybe he did in the afternoon, but you’ll have to ask Miccichè.”

  “You still haven’t explained why you went home early.”

  “There wasn’t much left to do. Just closing up a window with boards and plastic, taking apart the tunnel, and smoothing out the soil.”

  “Did you notice if there was a trunk in the living room?”

  “Yessir. It was the owner that had us bring it down there, but I can’t remember ’is name now. He had me and someone named Smecca carry it down.”

  “Was it empty?”

  “Totally.”

  “Okay, thanks.You can go.”

  Dalli Cardillo couldn’t believe it.

  “A good day to you all!”

  And he ran out.

  “You know why Spitaleri didn’t forewarn him of the interrogation and didn’t tell him what to say?” asked Montalbano.

  “No.”

  “Because the man is shrewd. He knows Dalli Cardillo is unaware of the murder. So he thought it was better if he showed up here with nothing to hide.”

  Gaspare Miccichè was a fortyish redhead who measured barely four feet eight inches tall. He had extremely long arms and bowed legs. He looked like a monkey. Surely Darwin, if he could have seen him, would have hugged him for joy. Miccichè must have been able to enter the wooden tunnel practically standing up. He, too, was a bit nervous.

  “You’re making me miss a whole morning of work!”

  “Signor Miccichè, do you have any idea why we summoned you here?”

  “I not only have an idea, I know why, because Spitaleri talked to me before I came. It’s about that fucking illegal apartment.”

  “Didn’t Spitaleri tell you anything else?”

  “Why, what else is there?”

  “Listen, on the twelfth of October, which was your last day of work, at what time did you go home?”

  “It wasn’t the last day. I went back the next day, too.”

  “To do what?”

  “What I didn’t do the afternoon of the day before.”

  “And what was that?”

  “That afternoon, when I was getting back down to work, Dipasquale, the foreman, arrived and told me not to dismantle the tunnel.”

  “Why?”

  “He said we’d better wait another day to see if there was any seepage. An’ he also said the owner wanted to come by in the afternoon to check things himself.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “What was I supposed to do? I left.”

  “Go on.”

  “That night, probably after nine o’clock, Dipasquale called me up saying I could take down the tunnel the following morning. So I went, I boarded up the window and covered it in plastic, then I dismantled the tunnel. I was just startin’ to smooth out the ground when three guys from the team arrived.”

  “What team?”

  “The ones that were supposed to rem
ove the fencing from around the worksite. Then I went around the house twice with the grader and—”

  “What’s a grader?” asked Fazio.

  “It’s a machine like the one they use to make roads.”

  “A road-roller?”

  “Yeah, but smaller. When I was done, I went back home.”

  “With the grader?”

  “No, the guys from the team were supposed to take that away with their truck.”

  “Do you remember whether you entered the apartment for any reason on the morning of the thirteenth?”

  “Spitaleri asked me the same question. Nah, I didn’t go in ’cause there wasn’t any reason to go in.”

  Had he gone in, he would have noticed at least the pool of blood in the living room. But he seemed sincere.

  “Did you notice that there was a trunk in there?”

  “Yessir. It was the owner—”

  “Yes, Mr. Speciale had it brought down. Did you open it?”

  “The trunk? No. I knew it was empty. Why would I open it?”

  Without answering, Montalbano grabbed the printout, turned it over, and handed it to him.

  Miccichè looked at the photograph of the murdered girl, noticed the date of her disappearance, and gave the printout back to the inspector. He looked genuinely stunned.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  It was Fazio who answered.

  “If you had opened the trunk on the morning of the thirteenth, you would have found her inside it. Wrapped up in plastic, with her throat slashed.”

  Miccichè’s reaction was not what they expected.

  He shot straight to his feet, face turning purple, fists clenched, teeth bared. A wild animal. Montalbano was afraid he might jump onto the desk.

  “Motherfucking son of a bitch!”

  “Who?”

  “Spitaleri! He knew and didn’t tell me nothing! From the way he was talking to me, it’s clear he wanted to get me in trouble!”

  “Sit down and calm yourself. Why, in your opinion, would Spitaleri have wanted to get you in trouble?”

  “To make you guys think it was me who killed that girl! When I went home that day, I left Dipasquale there! I don’t know nothing at all about any of this!”

  “Did you ever see this girl anywhere around the construction site?”

  “Never!”

  “When you stopped working on the afternoon of the twelfth, do you remember what you did?”

  “How could I possibly remember? You’re talking about six years ago!”

  “Make an effort, Signor Miccichè. It’s in your own interest,” said Fazio.

  Miccichè was seized by another fit of rage. He leapt to his feet and, before Fazio could stop him, he set off at a run and butted his head mightily against the closed door of the office.As Fazio was sitting him back down by force, the door opened and there appeared a befuddled Catarella.

  “D’jou call for me, Chief ?”

  10

  Between words and shoves, blandishments and brandishings of handcuffs, Fazio and Montalbano finally managed to get the unchained beast to calm down. Then, after some five minutes of good behavior, head in his hands, concentrating as he tried to remember, Miccichè began to mutter.

  “Wait a minute . . . wait a minute . . .”

  “The head-butt is bringing his memory back,” the inspector said to Fazio under his breath.

  “Wait a minute . . . I think it was the same day that . . . Yes . . .Yes . . .”

  He leapt to his feet yet again, but Montalbano and Fazio were quick to jump on him and immobilize him. By now they’d learned the technique.

  “But I just wanted to call my wife!”

  “Well, if that’s all . . .” said the inspector.

  Fazio held out the phone with the outside line for him. Miccichè dialed a number but was too nervous and got it wrong, reaching a grocer’s shop. He dialed again and got it wrong again.

  “Let me dial it for you.”

  Miccichè told him the number, holding the receiver in his hand.

  “Carmelina? ’Ss me. D’you remember six years ago, when our boy Michilino broke ’is leg? Never mind why I’m asking you. Just say yes or no. Do you remember? You don’t remember if it was six years ago? Think hard. Yes? And didn’t it happen on the twelfth of October? Yes?”

  He hung up.

  “Now iss all comin’ back to me. Since I got home early that day, I laid down and went to sleep. Then Carmelina woke me up, crying. Michilino had fallen off ’is bike and broke ’is leg. So I took ’im to Montelusa hospital an’ my wife came wit’ me. We stayed at the hospital until that evening. You can check.”

  “That’s what we’re gonna do,” said Fazio.

  He exchanged a glance with Montalbano.

  “For now, you can go,” said the inspector.

  “Thanks. I’m gonna go bust Spitaleri’s face, even if it costs me my job!”

  And he left the room grinding his teeth.

  “He acts like he escaped from some cage at the zoo,” commented Fazio.

  “Why do you think Spitaleri didn’t tell him anything about the murder?” the inspector asked him.

  “Because Spitaleri, having already left, had no way of knowing that Miccichè’s kid broke his leg. He was convinced he didn’t have an alibi.”

  “So, in short, Miccichè was right: Spitaleri wanted to set him up. But the question is: why?”

  “Maybe because he thinks Dipasquale is involved. And Spitaleri cares more about Dipasquale, who probably knows a thing or two about him, than about some poor bastard like Miccichè.”

  “Right.”

  “What should I do? Call Dipasquale back in?”

  “You got some doubts about him?”

  Thus the foreman also entered the game.

  Before going out to eat at the usual place, Enzo’s trattoria, the inspector stopped in front of Catarella’s closet, and the switchboard operator sprang to attention.

  “At ease.What ever happened with those fans?”

  “Can’t be found anywheres, Chief. Not even in Montelusa. They says they should have ’em in tree or four days’ time.”

  “Time enough for us to be properly roasted.”

  Catarella accompanied him to the door and stood there watching him.

  The blast of heat that came out of his car when Montalbano opened the door discouraged him from entering. Maybe it was better just to walk to Enzo’s, which was about fifteen minutes away on foot, taking, naturally, the sides of the streets that were in shade. He headed off.

  “Chief! What, you goin’ on foot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait a second.”

  Catarella went back into the station and came out with a small green cap with a visor, like baseball players wear. He handed it to the inspector.

  “Here, put this on to cover your head.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “Chief ! You’re gonna get sunstricken!”

  “Better sunstroke than looking like somebody going to the Pontida meetings.”

  “Where you going, Chief?”

  “Never mind.”

  After he’d been walking five minutes with his head down, he heard a voice:

  “Vocumprà?”

  He looked up. An Arab selling sunglasses, straw hats, bathing suits. Next to his face, however, the man was holding a gadget that caught the inspector’s attention, a sort of portable minifan that must have functioned with batteries.

  “I’ll take that,” he said, pointing to the fan.

  “This is mine for me.”

  “Haven’t you got another one?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, how much you want for it?”

  “Fifty euros.”

  Fifty euros was way too much.

  “Let’s make it thirty.”

  “Forty.”

  Montalbano paid him the forty euros, grabbed the little fan, and resumed walking, holding the gadget next to his face. He couldn’t believe
it—it actually cooled him off very nicely.

  Sitting down to eat, however, he wanted to keep to light things and had only a main course. And, thanks to the little fan, he was able to take his customary walk along the jetty and sit for a short while on the flat rock.

  The minifan came equipped with a clamp, which allowed the inspector to attach it to the edge of the desk.There was no doubt about it: The thing did provide a bit of relief to the overheated office.

  “Catarella!”

  “Behole the brillince o’ man!” Catarella commented in admiration upon seeing the little fan.

  “Fazio here?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Tell him to come in.”

  Fazio also congratulated him on the contraption.

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  “Ten euros.”

  He was embarrassed to admit he’d paid forty.

  “Where’d you buy it? I want to get one myself.”

  “Some Arab passing through. Unfortunately it was the only one he had.”

  The telephone rang.

  It was Dr. Pasquano.The inspector turned on the speakerphone so Fazio could also hear.

  “You all right, Montalbano?”

  “Yes, why do you ask?”

  “Well, considering the fact that you didn’t bust my balls this morning, I was worried.”

  “Did you perform the autopsy?”

  “Why else would I be calling you? To hear your lovable, mellifluous voice?”

  He must have discovered something important to have called him at all.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, first of all, the girl had completely digested what she had eaten, but had not yet evacuated. Therefore she was killed either around six o’clock in the evening, or later, around eleven.”

  “I think it was around six in the evening.”

  “That’s your business.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  The doctor didn’t like saying what he was about to say.

  “I was wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “The girl was a virgin. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

  Montalbano and Fazio looked at each other in astonishment.

  “What does that mean?” asked the inspector.